‘Manpower is short. Thus, men must be sought from every corner of our realm,’ Theodosius continued. ‘This levy was drawn from Constantinople, Perinthus, the islands and right here in Thessalonica. There are enough men here to replenish most of our legions and even form some new ones. Ask not of their past, but of what bright future we might share with them in our ranks.’
‘Half of those men will never fight,’ Rectus said from behind Pavo’s shoulder. He pointed at the many who wore bandages over missing thumbs – an act of self-mutilation in a futile attempt to escape conscription. ‘And look, Murci, hundreds of them!’
‘And slaves,’ Libo whispered.
Pavo’s head whipped round to follow Libo’s gaze. He saw the hunched ones – one of whose scant robe had fallen away to show the telltale scourge-marks of a cruel master. He felt a long-forgotten urge to weep, his own distant past in the slave cellars of the odious Senator Tarquitius now seeming like the ghost of a buried past. It had taken the grey crone’s threat to force Tarquitius to free Pavo, and only because he was free could he enlist with the Claudia. Now slaves were being drawn directly into the legions in masses?
‘Slaves will be requisitioned as needed. Should their masters refuse,’ Theodosius paused, ‘then they will be burnt alive,’ he finished with an edge of steel to his words. Then he gestured towards one bunch amongst the rabble. ‘And there are others who will be granted a second chance…’
Suddenly, Libo bristled, a half-gasp escaping his clenched teeth with a faint cloud of spit. ‘Bastards!’ he growled. Pavo followed his one-eyed glower to see the huddle of men amongst the masses: filthy men in torn tunics… military tunics. Batavians! He heard in his mind then the weeping of Saturninus. ‘Deserters?’
Some of them were defiant, sneering back at the onlooking, mustered legionaries.
The cheering died almost completely now and groans of discontent took hold. The tax protests rose up again along with a few derisory whistles and jeers.
‘More, retired veterans will be re-enlisted. And from this day forth, sons of legionaries, living or dead, are now obliged to conscript. Bribes will no longer exempt any man from his duty.’ Theodosius boomed, apparently eager to turn the mood of the crowd again. ‘Our ranks will grow. Our armies will flourish. And with so many leaders lost, we must look to new generals. The new army of the East will be harnessed by four Magistri Militum – men who will form part of my sacrum consistorium.’ The emperor stepped aside, gesturing towards the rear of the dais. Four silhouettes rose into view from the rear of the stage and stepped into the sunlight near the front.
One, Pavo recognised immediately: slight, wan, lank-haired and altogether unsoldierly bar his bronze scale vest.
‘Saturninus, Master of the First Army in the Emperor’s Presence,’ one of the Lancearii boomed as Saturninus took his place near the front of the stage.
Pavo felt his heart lift. A deep-thinking man of few but well-considered words, Saturninus could rejuvenate the legions… and banish his demons too. As Magister Militum of the palace legions, the Hiberi, the Nervi, the Fortenses and all those who remained could be replenished and revitalised.
‘Julius, Master of the Second Army in the Emperor’s Presence,’ the Lancearius cried. Pavo’s head swung to the stocky, dark general. His jaw was hoary with stubble and his eyes were cruel, his black helm and armour doing nothing to soften his appearance. The name swung to and fro in Pavo’s mind for a moment, then he and Sura both said at once: ‘the Butcher of Chalcedon…’
A gasp rang out over the crowd as many others realised who this was: the general who had slaughtered swathes of Gothic-born legionaries and citizens in Asia Minor.
On Gratian’s word, Pavo spat inwardly, his head dipping, his mind’s eye spiriting him back to his missed moment in Sirmium.
The gasps of the crowd tangled and changed into fiery cheers. ‘The bastards deserved their fate!’ one fellow crowed, punching the air to salute Julius. Pavo watched Julius’ face, years of service with army men teaching him that the earliest and slightest perceptions often told of a man’s soul. Julius’ face was hard, his eyes on the crowd of legionaries as more lauded him for his massacre. For the briefest of moments, one edge of the general’s top lip rose in the slightest of smirks.
‘More,’ the announcer continued, ‘Emperor Theodosius has assigned one man the responsibility of establishing a military riding school at the racing arena, to re-establish the Scholae Palatinae cavalry wings lost at Adrianople. The new Master of Cavalry and the Army of the Orient will be… Bacurius.’
Pavo heard the words like a wet slap as a third man stepped forward. He settled, feet wide apart, hands behind his back, his shabby brown cloak fluttering behind him in the breeze and his thick, dark brown leather helm crested with a long, trailing plume like a horse’s tail. His baleful face was raked with three thick, pink scar welts, as if a bear had ripped its claws across his skin. Pavo’s mind flashed to the critical moment in the Battle of Adrianople, when the impetuous Scutarii riders – an esteemed and precious Scholae cavalry regiment – had rushed into battle before the order had been given.
‘Pavo, every night I see shades in my sleep,’ Sura whispered, eyes fixed on the dais, ‘but tell me, tell me, that is not him?’
‘It cannot be,’ Libo croaked. ‘We were there, we saw him fall.’
Pavo replied in a breath. ‘It is him. It is Bacurius of the Scutarii.’ The riders had been overwhelmed that day, struck down to a man, Pavo had been sure. The regiment was one of the many utterly lost. He had even seen Bacurius fall from his horse in a flurry of Gothic blades. The general lifted his eyes across the watching legions as if daring any of them to blame him for the disaster, then brought his hands round from his back to clasp them over his waist… but one hand was absent, a steel cup fixed on his stump of a wrist and a semispatha blade jutting from it.
‘It is him! Bacurius of Iberia,’ men of the Flavia Felix hissed.
‘Bacurius One-hand,’ another corrected them.
‘By the Gods,’ Trupo dared to join in, ‘Saturninus I was pleased to see, but can this get any more grim?’
‘And finally, as Master of the Army of Thracia, charged with leading the recovery of our lands,’ the Lancearius concluded. Pavo, Sura and the XI Claudia lads braced. This was to be their new leader. ‘General Modares.’
Pavo’s brow dipped. ‘Modares?’ Sura wore an equally confused look.
When Modares stepped forth, the legions broke out in cries of protest. Pavo’s heart fell into his boots. It was the bare-chested Gothic rider who had snapped at him a short time ago.
‘I tried to tell you, sir,’ Rectus whispered.
‘He is a Goth!’ the nameless voice from before asserted now.
The air between Modares and the nearby Julius, Butcher of Chalcedon, seemed to spark and fizz, each shooting sideways looks at the other.
‘Modares? Modares the nephew of Athanaric, one-time King of the Goths?’ another wailed.
Athanaric, Iudex of the Goths before Fritigern, had been the most belligerent and fierce of all the Gothic leaders. It was a blessing indeed that he had decided to stay in the Carpates Mountains instead of flooding into the empire like the many other Gothic tribes. But now it seemed that his nephew had secured a post in the upper echelons of the Eastern Roman Army.
The clamour of unrest did not ease, despite Theodosius’ strong appeals. ‘Look to your new generals as you look to me. Believe in them, believe in me,’ he boomed, then gestured to the four, who descended the wooden steps at the front of the stage. At the same time, a buccina sang and the rabble of deserters, broken slaves and thumbless wonders were herded like sheep, then split into smaller flocks under the banners for each legion erected at the southern side of the avenue.
‘Come on, let’s see what we get out of this,’ Pavo sighed, beckoning Sura. The pair moved away from the odeum and strode over to the banners. One bunch of physically shattered men, wretches and three Batavian deserters were driven t
owards the Claudia banner. One man stood out like an oak amongst saplings.
‘Appius Opiter Pulcher,’ the man said, stepping over before Pavo and Sura.
He was no youngster – at least as old as big Zosimus had been, perhaps in his mid-thirties. His cheeks were dotted with pox-scars and his oily, short dark hair rested in tight curls. His jutting jaw and flat-boned face gave him the look of a thug extraordinaire. A soldier, Pavo reckoned, seeing the man’s scars and the flinty look in his eyes – a man who had learned how to thole hardship and injustice.
‘Once of the First Italica,’ the big man said as if reading Pavo’s mind.
Deserter or recalled veteran? Pavo wondered.
‘Before I was discharged early,’ Pulcher added. ‘After that, I took employ with Senator Fabillus in Constantinople.’
‘Then you’ll not be best pleased about being dragged back into the army?’ Sura asked him.
‘On the contrary, I’ve missed it every day since I left. There’s a war on, and I’m sick to my guts of hearing about it. I’d quite like to put my shoulder to the shield again and do what I can to end it.’
The simplicity of the statement was a wonderful thing, like a cool breeze on a dog-hot day. Pavo felt the urge to give the big fellow a welcoming smile, but the tough hide of his station held good, and he merely gave the man a stony look and a slight nod. ‘Opis will see you right,’ he said, gesturing to the aquilifer, who was already taking a roster on a wax tablet while Libo barked the men into a queue of sorts.
Pulcher flashed a grin. ‘Excellent. And in any case living in a senator’s villa was no treat. Fabillus was a prick who seemed to think that he had the right to rape slave children…’ his voice tapered off as a shaven-headed, emaciated boy joined the queue within earshot. Pulcher shot the boy an apologetic look, then said to Pavo. ‘Young Stichus there bore the brunt of the bastard’s ways.’
Pavo met eyes with the youngster. At once his mind flashed again with memories of Tarquitius’ slave villa. Now the veneer of the tribunus really did tremble. He bolstered it by digging a heel against the ground. ‘He will find a more worthy life here, I can promise him that.’
Pulcher grinned again, then left to join the queue.
‘He seemed a decent sort,’ Sura said. ‘The lad – he’s too young, but if he has half the fire you do then he’ll be fine.’
Pavo eyed the line. He saw the three Batavian deserters amongst them, regarding him in return as a nobleman might eye dog mess. And then there were drunks, men with limps, some frail and coughing up their lungs. ‘You’ll sort the rest out, won’t you?’
Sura offered him a sarcastic smile, sighed and strode off down the line, bawling at the massed recruits.
Hooves clopped up behind Pavo, and he knew who was there even before he turned. Modares’ eyes were still cold and unwelcoming as he peered down upon Pavo. Still, Pavo threw up an arm in salute. ‘The new recruits will be assigned to their units and ready for training come the morning,’ he said, answering Modares unspoken question before adding, grudgingly, ‘sir!’
‘Better,’ Modares grunted dryly, then heeled his mount away.
Little Lupia, playing on the street-side with her polished stones, brushed them back into the small haircloth sack and stood up.
‘What’s wrong, Lupia?’ the other girls asked.
‘We should go,’ Lupia said.
‘Why? The sun shines and it is not late,’ said the others.
But Lupia’s eyes hung on the black wagon that was rolling up to the high wooden doors of Adrianople’s arms factory. Dull and silent until recent times, it had now gathered a smattering of workers and some new weapons and iron shirts were being produced. The wagon drew to a halt. Four black-cloaked men alighted, hoods obscuring their faces. She noticed the nervous, portly driver flinch as they drifted past him. And then she caught sight of the ring one wore. A lifeless, staring eye.
The other girls had skipped away now, and Lupia was alone. She crouched behind a stone half-wall and watched. These were the men her father had told her about two years ago on that night he had staggered home, bruised and splashed with blood – but not his own. He had shown her a ring just like this man’s. Not all men in the legions are good, Lupia, Zosimus had explained. There are bad sorts too, ones who move like shadows, who seek to trap and harm the men of the ranks. Well, there is one less to fear tonight…
Lupia gulped with relief when the man and the other three disappeared inside the fabrica doorway. A short time later, she heard shouting, then a thwack of knuckles on flesh followed by whimpering. After a short hiatus, the four emerged. Now the leader of the four carried a metal mould of some sort – the kind that stamped the identity of the fabrica on all arms and armour produced there. The leader tossed the piece down angrily, and Lupia gasped. The sound halted the leader. His hooded head twisted towards her then froze, and she was sure within the hood’s shadows, eyes stared at her.
With a surge of panic, she rose and ran for home.
The hooded four boarded the wagon, which set off again at haste.
Chapter 6
In the dawn chill, Pavo sat on the inner slope of Thessalonica’s turf ramp, absently spooning mouthfuls of thin wheat porridge. His eyes passed over the great camp, bathed in pink light. Despite the dubious doubling of manpower, the military camp hugging Thessalonica’s walls still resembled a sea of unoccupied space speckled with a thin archipelago of legionary islands. Each regimental island consisted of ordered tent rows and proud unit standards, encrusted around the edges with a shamble of makeshift rag bivouacs and timber scraps canted on poles, the sleeping forms of the new and untrained rabble underneath. Twelve thousand men in all, Pavo reckoned, in a camp sized to house one hundred thousand.
His thoughts were scattered by a scuffle of feet as Centurion Libo came from his tent, stretching, squinting into the dawn. Libo took up a staff and set about batting the row of goatskin tents that made up his century. ‘Come on you pussies, don’t make me come in there. Up and out, before the camp muster horn sounds.’
A grim chorus of waking men sounded. Burping, grunting and uncalled-for staccato swearing by those torn away from dreams. But the most impressive noise was surely the high-pitched, mosquito-like squeal that went on for an age before collapsing into a violent, uncontrolled splatter of buttocks expunging a night of built-up gas. Quadratus would have been proud, Pavo mused, seeing seven of the legionaries scramble from the tent, gagging and retching, the last one emerging a moment later, bemused and somewhat satisfied.
The men kindled and buzzed around fires – each contubernium of eight sharing a pot of morning porridge and a loaf of well-fired bread. The mood was light at first, but then he heard Libo’s ongoing rousing calls change, the tone growing strained. The one-eyed centurion had come to the slum of makeshift shelters that the new Claudia recruits had erected the previous night.
‘Up, you dogs!’ Libo snarled.
Filthy, sleep-befuddled and frightened faces gawped out of the tent hovels. Opis had taken a roster the previous day, and Pavo had pored over it, memorising the names as best he could with Libo pointing out faces around the night fires as he went. One of those now rising from sleep, he remembered without the aid of the roster: the slave boy Stichus. He felt a pang of pity, but crushed it, being sure to sweep all expression from his face as he looked on. It had to be this way. No pity, no mercy, no compromise. No enemy would offer any such comfort, and they had to learn. He had even been sure to have Libo assign Pulcher to a different contubernium, so the lad could not hide behind the hulking veteran. Up, he willed the youth and the rest, earn the first callus as a soldier must.
Stichus rose on shaking legs, his chest rising and falling rapidly in panic, his eyes glassy with tears of fright. Pavo’s lips twitched at one side, but he fought off the urge to afford the boy a reassuring smile.
The many others rose too. Of the three Batavians, he heard a black-bearded one scoff: ‘Taking orders from a limitaneus?’ he chuckled. Molac
us, Pavo surmised, thinking again of the roster and making a mental note to mark a cross next to this one. ‘Is this what it has come to?’ Molacus continued.
Libo’s top lip lifted like an angered hound’s. He flashed a look over to Pavo. Pavo, impassive, shook his head once: it would be wise to gauge this troublemaker before making an enemy of him, he realised. And so Libo let the incident pass.
Shortly after the porridge rations had been eaten, the new recruits were divided into centuries, with Claudia veterans being assigned as their centurions. Piece by piece, the vast gaps in the Claudia’s three cohorts were filled in. By mid-morning, they stood in three blocks. Pavo tossed on his ruby cloak and buckled on his helm as he moved to stand before them with Sura. Over seventeen hundred men, he mused, replete for the first time in so long. If he squinted and blurred his eyes, it almost reminded him of times past, when the legion was in its pomp. But when his vision sharpened, he saw the truth: a patchwork of filthy, bedraggled types studded with too few true legionaries. And now it was time for him to address them. The sea of eyes bored into him. The weight of responsibility pressed down hard on his shoulders. But he felt a strange presence just then, as if there was another beside him.
Believe in yourself, and they will believe in you, Gallus’ shade whispered. His momentary self-doubt vanished like a dust mote in a breeze. He stood a little broader, his ruby cloak falling back from his shoulders, moving his feet apart just a fraction more, tilting his head forward a little just to cast his eyes in shade.
‘Some of you come from under the yoke of cruel masters. Some of you believe that by being conscripted, your freedom has been taken from you. Some of you carry burdens of guilt,’ he did not look at the Batavians as he said this, but noticed them shrug and sneer. The black-bearded Molacus was definitely the ring leader, he realised. ‘I demand from each of you that you let go of all that has happened before. That you understand why you are here. For all the hardships or otherwise of your past life, I can assure you that if you do not give everything to this legion, a far bleaker future awaits. Not from me,’ he met every single eye with a stern sweep of his head, ‘for I will plague you like a nightmare and I will offer you not a grain of mercy,’ he said flatly, ‘but from the darkness that lies out there,’ he gestured to the north.
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